


Deep

by antumbral



Series: NIN Trilogy [2]
Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Feelings, First Time, Fluffy, M/M, beginning relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:19:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I got myself off, and Kyouya watched</i>, he thinks tentatively, testing the thought. It’s not as unsettling as it should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep

_Your skin speaks soft_  
_Even if your lips can't say it..._  
_Right now, we could take a chance_  
_\- Nine Inch Nails, Deep_  
  
  


The sun through the massive windows of Kyouya’s living room beats down on the back of Tamaki's neck. The skin there feels tender – the sweltered, sensitive feeling that marks the beginning of sunburn. This day is the hottest yet in a summer of very hot days, thinks Tamaki idly.  


He’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, legs spread into a wide V, trousers unbuttoned. His breath comes in shallow pants still.  


_I got myself off, and Kyouya watched_ , he thinks tentatively, testing the thought. It’s not as unsettling as it should be. He glances up to the stairs, where Kyouya disappeared, and levers himself off the ground to follow.  


His first stop is the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Kyouya isn’t there, but his hands are sticky still, and he washes them carefully. Kyouya’s soap smells oddly like jasmine. The scent seems out of character with his usually practical nature.  


Tamaki evaluates the person in the mirror dispassionately, as though his reflection were a stranger: flushed cheeks, sloppy clothes half buttoned, terribly bright eyes. A stain runs across his trousers, accidental spray that could not be mistaken for anything except what it is. Tamaki considers trying to clean them with a washcloth, but decides against it. He’s still curious about where Kyouya’s gone, and if he dawdles any longer it will seem like he’s being shy.  


Kyouya, it turns out, is in the bedroom. He's laid back on the bed, pants open and staring at the ceiling. Seeing him like this sucks the space out of the room, shrinks it to the flex of his toes, the curl of his hands -- casual in the most studied way Tamaki has ever seen. There is a lovely symmetry to the idea that Tamaki could watch now, stand in the doorway and not make noise. He could force Kyouya to open up and achieve the same sort of vulnerability that he had shown earlier: performance without reciprocation.  


The thought doesn’t last, though; Kyouya is too beautiful not to touch. Tamaki makes his steps deliberately heavy as he enters the room, giving warning. Kyouya leans up on his elbows: long body; bare chest; open fly showcasing hard, blush-red prick. The flush in his cheeks runs down his neck and chest, past his nipples.  


“I wondered when you’d catch up,” Kyouya says. Tamaki isn’t sure that they’re talking about his sidetrip to the bathroom. He remembers with perfect clarity the moment a few weeks ago when he’d watched the flare of Kyouya’s nostrils and realized with the force of epiphany that Kyouya desired him.  


“I’m sorry,” he says, leaning against the doorpost, “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” His words are soft, and Kyouya can take from them what meaning he will. Tamaki was surer of himself downstairs. There, he’d been the brazen one. There’s a gulf of difference between showy words of love for a customer and peeling himself back enough to allow Kyouya to see him in orgasm, but both are essentially displays, and Tamaki has always been a performer. Here he is an audience, and this is strange and unknown territory.  


Kyouya watches him for a moment, slouched there against the doorpost -- Kyouya has always been an audience, especially for Tamaki -- and seems to come to some decision. He sits up, and strips his pants down his legs, tugging them carefully over the bridges of his feet, and Christ, he’s naked. Tamaki isn’t sure what Kyouya wants yet, what he’ll allow, but fuck. Naked. _Naked naked naked_ , says Tamaki’s brain helpfully. Naked means Kyouya is okay with at least some of this, and Tamaki can work with that kind of consent. Kyouya leans back against the headboard, relaxed, and lets Tamaki look for a while.  


After a few minutes of studying Kyouya in silence -- coarse hairs over his calves fading to thin and fine on his thighs, soft indentations on either side of his nose where his glasses usually sat -- Tamaki crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Proximity makes it starkly obvious how completely their positions from earlier have reversed. Now it is Kyouya who lies unclothed, brash and vulnerable, and Tamaki who watches quietly, fully clothed, waiting to be led.  


“Come here,” says Kyouya, even though Tamaki is already seated on the bed. Kyouya bends mostly with his stomach and pushes Tamaki’s t-shirt up and over his head. Before the fabric covers his eyes, Tamaki can see the tiny wrinkles of skin that the contraction of muscle causes over Kyouya’s belly, and thinks about how thin Kyouya really is. It’s not apparent when he’s fully dressed, but laid out this way, Tamaki wonders if perhaps his body doesn’t sometimes pay a price for his mind.  


The shirt gets tangled for a moment under Kyouya’s hands, and Tamaki’s still sorting out the proper holes for head and arms when Kyouya licks him, just below his armpit. He flinches. The contact is unexpected, but not unwelcome.  


“Pants. Come on,” Kyouya says as soon as he manages to get the shirt off. He’s urgent, desperate, far more so than Tamaki, who already came once downstairs. Kyouya’s fingers pull down ineffectively on his belt loops. Tamaki lifts his hips and shimmies a little to help, then reaches down to strip the pants off his legs. Kyouya takes advantage of his need to deal with clothes again to bite lightly at Tamaki’s stomach, a bit above the belly button and to the left. Then -- _suddenly_ , thinks Tamaki -- they’re both naked.  


As soon as the pants are gone -- flung in an unseen heap off the bed to pool where they will – Kyouya has a hand on either of his shoulders, pulling him further onto the bed, fingers bruise-tight and almost shaking him.  


“Have you done this before?” says Kyouya, and _oh_. That tone of voice is something they should discuss later. Jealousy? Anger? Bitterness? All of the above? Kyouya has always liked owning things, thinks Tamaki. “I need to know now,” Kyouya says. “Have you done this?”  


Tamaki isn’t sure of the right answer here. He settles for making an ambiguous sound in his throat, so that Kyouya can interpret it as yes or no, whichever is best for him. Kyouya frowns, a brief flash of expression, there and then gone again. He’s wondering who with, Tamaki realizes, but doesn’t have a chance to think that hard about it.  


Kyouya shoves him over onto his stomach, and it surprises Tamaki. He never expected romance between them -- regardless of his gallant act at the Host Club, he and Kyouya have never been like that, but Kyouya is matter of fact in a way that Tamaki did not expect. For a moment he’s simply lying there on his stomach, and he hears a rustle from the direction of the bedside table. Then Kyouya is back, long body stretched out warm above his, chest still just barely damp from swimming. Kyouya’s nose brushes the fine hairs on the back of his neck, and Tamaki shivers from the unexpected intimacy of it.  


Kyouya runs a hand down his side, starting over his ribs and ending on the outside of his leg below the hip, and nuzzles again at the back of Tamaki’s neck. He can feel Kyouya’s breath behind his ear.  


“Breath in for me,” Kyouya says. Tamaki obeys, and feels the hand on his leg cup over his ass, fitting neatly against the lower curve of his buttocks.  


“And out.” He still obeys. Kyouya’s voice is lulling, gone deep and rocky: fast streams over hard stones. When he exhales, the hand moves between his legs, fits against his crack. Cool, slick fingers circle his hole once, no pressure, not yet, just touch. Tamaki takes a few gasping breaths and Kyouya presses an open mouthed kiss into the hollow of his shoulder. It’s oddly reassuring, and it makes his whole body feel desperately sensitive, attuned to the slightest touch.  


“In,” Kyouya says, barely more than a breath just behind his ear, and when Tamaki does, Kyouya presses a finger in: no hesitation, just one deep stroke. Tamaki’s body seizes up involuntarily, but Kyouya’s voice is there to lull him. The finger presses around inside him, and he feels peculiar, inverted.  


One finger, then two, more width before he’s really used to the feel of the first one, but his body grows accustomed in a few strokes. He presses his hips into the mattress when Kyouya twists and scissors his fingers, caught up between the unfamiliar sensations and the rub of his sensitized cock against the sheets. It’s certainly not gentle, but it’s not really rough either, just confident, as though Tamaki will know what’s going on and Kyouya trusts him to get with the program. Tamaki isn’t used to having someone touch him with such intimate familiarity.  


“Okay,” Kyouya says, and settles back to sit between Tamaki’s legs. For a moment, Tamaki misses the warmth along his back and side, but then there’s the rip of a condom, hands in the sheets on either side of his head, and deep _deep_ , almost unbearable pressure.  


Tamaki makes a twisted, confused sound, not really sure how his body is supposed to respond. Kyouya presses his chest to Tamaki’s back and licks at the nape of his neck, tasting the sweat there. Tamaki shifts his hips minutely, trying to get used to all the new sensations.  


Kyouya says, “Here give me --" and knees Tamaki’s legs a little further apart. There’s a hand in the small of his back, just enough pressure to cant his hips and make the angle a little easier. Tamaki can feel his body adjusting, becoming accustomed to the subtle, maddening friction of push-pull inside him. Kyouya’s hips are steady -- rhythmic flex of spine -- and he pulls Tamaki to his knees, slides his hands over Tamaki’s, then braces them both against the headboard for better leverage.  


The change in angle changes the way the thrusts feel, and the fourth time Kyouya presses him against the headboard, he _gets it_. He hasn’t been hard before this -- too tired from having come before, too unsure about the newness of it all to really enjoy, but _this_ has his dick twitching, swelling helplessly. It rips a surprised moan out of him, and when Kyouya does it again he can’t help it. He cries out louder –- half yell, half scream -- balanced on the edge between shocked and pleased and anguished ( _nervous system overload, oh god_ ), dick half hard, helpless.  


When he hears it, Kyouya’s whole body freezes behind him, and Tamaki can’t decide if he dislikes it because he wants Kyouya to keep going, wants to maybe feel that again, or if he’s relieved because it gives him a chance to catalogue his reactions, lets his brain catch up to the overload in his spine. He’s almost comfortable with it, almost decided that yes, he _definitely_ wants more of whatever that was, when Kyouya withdraws from him completely. He’s not touching Tamaki at all, and Tamaki wonders what he’s done wrong.  


“You haven’t really done this before, have you?” Kyouya says. Tamaki doesn’t know why that’s suddenly important. But Kyouya’s hand is back on him, stroking down his back, shockingly gentle compared to before.  


Tamaki takes his hands off the headboard and turns around, nervous, inadequate. “Kyouya --" he begins, but sees something click in Kyouya’s eyes. Kyouya realizes what Tamaki must be thinking, feeling, and pulls him closer. He cups a hand over Tamaki’s mostly hard cock and strokes him softly.  


“No, don’t worry about it,” Kyouya says. “It’s not a big deal. I’d have gone slower if I’d known, though.” His voice is gentle, as though Tamaki is a kitten he’s trying to coax closer. Tamaki doesn’t know whether to be insulted or grateful. He settles for reciprocation, his hand on Kyouya’s cock, and he’s surprised how different it feels from his own, and how slippery from the lube.  


“You never came,” Tamaki says. Kyouya’s been hard since he watched Tamaki downstairs.  


“No, it’s --” Kyouya says, then sighs. “Here. Were you okay with before, once I found your sweet spot?”  


Tamaki nods. It’s a little too embarrassing to admit out loud that Kyouya had lit up his nerves like nothing he’d ever felt before. Kyouya doesn’t seem to need words to understand though. “Okay. Here, let’s try it this way.”  


He props Tamaki up against the headboard, a pillow behind his back for cushion. Kyouya crowds into Tamaki’s body, pushes him into a slouch so that Tamaki’s legs wrap around his waist and his hips press against Kyouya’s. He can feel Kyouya’s cock ( _hard, hot, god so hot_ ) against his balls, and Kyouya can’t keep from twitching his hips, rubbing a little when he leans over Tamaki to press their cheeks together and whisper in his ear.  


“I’m sorry I was rough with you earlier.” Kyouya nuzzles down into his neck, and it feels good, but it’s not really what Tamaki wants. He can feel himself getting harder just thinking about that sensation from before, and he wants it again, greedy.  


Tamaki starts, “I --." He’s not sure how to say this without sounding like a total moron, so he settles for spitting it out as quickly as he can. “Iwantyoubackinsideme.” He punctuates this statement with an encouraging little rock of his hips, in case Kyouya couldn’t understand what he’d said. Kyouya pulls back to stare down at him, braced on strong arms, startled and so completely turned on it’s a wonder he hasn’t come yet.  


“Yeah,” Kyouya says. “Yeah, okay.” He rolls on another condom and reaches for the lube to slick himself again. Tamaki can see the process this time, and is fascinated. Kyouya wipes his hand on the sheets, and Tamaki takes it for a sign of how turned on he is. Kyouya has always been meticulous.  


Kyouya reaches for his hips and tilts him a little further back against the headboard, then presses inside, slow glide this time, less forceful. Tamaki watches his face, watches Kyouya ( _tight, cool, uplaced Kyouya_ ) struggle for control. The feeling of penetration is better this time, not nearly as unfamiliar. His brain knows how to react to it and relaxes his body, so it only takes him a little by surprise when Kyouya finds the right angle again after just a few thrusts.  


He can see why people do this willingly now. It’s good, watching Kyouya above him: the sweat on his face and chest, the blown-out intensity of his eyes, the soft wonder when he looks down their bodies. Then Kyouya leans back a little more. It puts more weight behind his hips, and oh, if that doesn’t make that stroke feel good. Kyouya’s face is fond and open, and he slides his hands to the headboard on either side of Tamaki’s head.  


“Touch yourself,” Kyouya whispers, rubbing his nose murmur-soft against Tamaki’s. “You were so hot, jerking off for me earlier. Could’ve come just watching you. I promise it’ll feel amazing when you put your hand on your cock like this, just touch yourself for me.” Tamaki’s not going to resist a command like that, so he reaches down and wraps his hand around his own cock. He’s still got a little lube on his hands from earlier, so the strokes are easy, and that’s it, that’s it _exactly_. It’s almost too much; Kyouya’s dick pressing up against the good spot inside him, his stomach rubbing against Tamaki’s balls with every thrust, and now a hand around his dick in pulse with it all.  


Kyouya’s saying something, but the words don’t really register, just the sounds: low and thick and raspy. Tamaki’s eyes lose focus and he lets himself drift with it, lets his body take over and work itself deeper into Kyouya’s rhythm, head gone to white noise. He knows what he looks like, spread out and asking for it. Kyouya takes the invitation, increases the power behind his hips to just this side of rough. Tamaki’s panting -- short, sharp breaths that let Kyouya’s thrusts press the air out of his lungs.  


Kyouya shifts his weight briefly, just enough to lift one hand and rub his thumb over the head of Tamaki’s cock. Really, that’s what puts him over, although the next few pounding thrusts all pile on top and leave him gasping, blind, shaking himself apart.  


He’s already come once, and his body doesn’t quite know what to do with another orgasm so soon. It’s so sharp it walks the delicate line between exquisite and pain, but then Kyouya bites down on his collarbone ( _skin as pale and thin as Tamaki’s, it’ll mark by morning_ ) and that small real pain is all it takes to shift the rest of the sensation firmly into exquisite.  


Tamaki doesn’t quite pass out, but he’s not precisely all there for the next few minutes. In his next moment of definite awareness, Kyouya is slumped on top of him, breathing like a sprinter, boneless and satiated. Tamaki brushes the hair back from where it hangs in Kyouya’s face, needing to touch. The finer strands stick to the mist of sweat at Kyouya’s temples.  


Kyouya turns his cheek into the gesture, affectionate for a moment, then levers himself up and sinks back onto his knees. Tamaki shifts down the bed, away from the headboard, to lay out flat. He feels desperately exposed. They’ve just finished fucking each other; afterwards is an odd time to get modest, but the feeling passes quickly. Kyouya hauls himself up from the bed with a visible effort and wrinkles his nose at the sight of clothing thrown haphazard across the room. He disappears through the door and Tamaki hears running water in the sink. A shower might be appropriate, but that would require movement, and Tamaki is pretty sure he couldn’t move if the house was on fire.  


Kyouya comes back with a washcloth and settles onto the bed again. He’s clearly already neatened himself up, and now he reaches over to clean Tamaki gently. The washcloth strokes across his forehead, his chest, then with very soft touches, his dick and his balls. Kyouya touches his shoulder to turn him onto his stomach, then wipes away the strange, slippery sensation of lube from his crack. It’s nice. Tamaki feels like a cat, stretched out and being groomed.  


The washcloth gets flung on the table by the bed. Kyouya lies down close and on his side, head propped up on one elbow to study Tamaki. Now that the sex is over, he seems content to touch. Tamaki lets his eyes drift closed as Kyouya touches his spine, his shoulders. He feathers his fingers curiously through the fine, pale, damp hair beneath one arm.  


Eventually Kyouya’s exploring hand slips further down, circling his hole and rubbing lightly. Tamaki couldn’t get it up again if he tried, but the touches are oddly non-sexual, more comforting than arousing. He’s pretty sure Kyouya knows that and isn’t trying for another round. He’s just exploring, insatiably curious. Tamaki is completely relaxed when Kyouya slips a finger back inside of him, still stroking gently. He’s still slippery inside with lube, so there’s no real friction.  


“Is this too much?” Kyouya asks. He doesn’t slow his hand’s gentle in-out movement; the question is more a courtesy than a real inquiry.  


“Nah,” Tamaki murmurs. “Feels good.”  


He’s halfway to sleep when Kyouya speaks again. “You’re a little swollen here. I shouldn’t have been so rough.”  


“ ’S fine,” Tamaki says, and moving his mouth feels like a colossal effort. “It’s not like I was complaining.”  


“Still,” Kyouya says. He adds another finger, a little more width, but it’s still the same gentle exploration, still comforting. “Can’t believe this was your first time. The way you touched yourself for me downstairs, I thought --" He trails off; there’s no good way to end that sentence.  


“You’ve done that before, though,” Tamaki says. It’s a statement, idly curious. He’s too content to be jealous. There’s nothing he can do about it, anyway, and he’s pretty sure he’s got Kyouya’s exclusive attention if he wants it.  


“Yeah. A while ago.” For Kyouya, who is the king of scrupulous detail, it’s a notably vague answer. A sore spot. Tamaki can’t resist poking at it.  


“Tell me?” His tone is gentle enough that Kyouya can refuse if he wishes.  


“It was no big deal. He was older, in college. I met him at a society party, we were both bored. He taught me a lot, then his parents arranged a marriage for him, so we stopped.” Tamaki murmurs a noise of acknowledgment. Kyouya twists his fingers a little for variety. “You still okay with this?” he asks, and Tamaki thinks that he must mean the fingering, but maybe also just themselves.  


Tamaki answers the obvious question. “Yeah. You could do that for about a week if you wanted to.”  


Kyouya laughs softly. “Hedonist.” Tamaki doesn’t deny it. Kyouya’s hand feels fucking fantastic. He’s got just the tips of his fingers lightly on Tamaki’s prostate, rubbing circles. They both know it’s not about getting off; it’s just about pleasure, no aim but the act itself, simple, uncomplicated.  


Kyouya stops for a moment with his fingers buried deep and shifts his body closer, pressing up against Tamaki’s side. Tamaki can feel his mouth against his shoulder.  


“Hey Tamaki,” Kyouya says. “Next time we do this, can we switch?”  


Next time. As in, the time after this. Tamaki’s mind comes back online to think about that, and his body tenses up involuntarily. Kyouya withdraws his hand, somehow understanding that the touch doesn’t feel as good when he’s not in that drifting mindspace away from all thought.  


Tamaki rolls onto his side to face Kyouya across the pillow, noses so close. Kyouya’s hand drifts over to cup his hipbone casually.  


“Next time,” Tamaki says, testing out the sound of more times with Kyouya, of doing this often. Something deep flickers in Kyouya’s eyes at the repetition.  


“Or did you have Haruhi in mind for next time?” he asks, because Kyouya has never pitied those who injure him. Tamaki watches Kyouya slowly withdrawing, walling himself up behind his intelligence and his unflappable persona. Tamaki hates it, so he leans in and crosses the last line left between them, licks teasingly over Kyouya’s mouth.  


It’s just a flicker of tongue, almost playful, but Kyouya’s eyes go wide and he lunges forward, covering Tamaki’s mouth and stealing his breath away.  


“No,” Tamaki says in answer to the question once Kyouya is satiated, a little more secure in how things lie between them. “I was just surprised.” He nuzzles up beneath Kyouya’s chin, all eager puppyish squirms and puckish kisses. “You’d have to show me what to do, though.”  


Kyouya laughs. “Bet you’re a fast learner.”  


“You better hope so, it’s your ass on the line.” Kyouya is still laughing softly, face smiling and open. Tamaki wants to keep it that way. “Haruhi --” he says, “You were right about us playing roles. What you said earlier. I was always the prince with her, things weren’t --" he struggles to explain properly. “-- weren’t like this between us.”  


He indicates the scant space between their bodies. Kyouya is beautiful, now that he gets to look: pale and broad-shouldered, dick lying quiescent in the curve of his thigh, still flushed and a little swollen. Tamaki reaches out to touch him there. Kyouya hisses out a breath, but all Tamaki does is cup him, fingertips resting with gentle pressure against the base, palm protecting the over-sensitive head. He knows from experience that it feels good after he comes. Kyouya relaxes again when he realizes what Tamaki is doing.  


“I could never touch her like this,” Tamaki says thoughtfully.  


Kyouya chuffs out a laugh. “Well yeah, she doesn’t have a dick. It’d be sort of difficult to touch her like this.” Tamaki regards him balefully.  


“You know what I mean.”  


“Yeah,” says Kyouya. “I just wanted to make sure.”  


“Trying to figure out where to fit me in your plans for world domination?” Tamaki likes it when things are light and comfortable between them.  


Kyouya is unexpectedly serious. “Yeah. Planning,” he says.  


Tamaki turns onto his back and pulls Kyouya across the sheets so that Kyouya’s mouth rests against the swell of his shoulder. He ruffles Kyouya’s messy hair. It dried in all directions after he’d gotten distracted earlier while toweling off. Kyouya closes his eyes and wiggles a little to settle in.  


“Good,” says Tamaki into the chlorine-and-sweat smell of Kyouya’s hair.  


They sleep curled against each other, pressed close in spite of the heat. Tamaki dreams about waking up, watching Kyouya blink blearily at him and inform him imperiously that they are sleeping in. Kyouya dreams about possibilities: the vast vistas of the world that are theirs to conquer in the morning. Theirs. In their sleep, both are smiling.  



End file.
